You Ain't Never Had A Friend Like Me
by xwedontneedroadsx
Summary: Recently back from Afghanistan, John Watson receives a special item from his grandfather's will that has always been in the background of his life. Whilst at any other time he would have welcomed this addition, the loss of his only family member left weighs hard on his heart. Is there something - or someone - inside the ancient, antique lamp that can lift his spirits at all?
1. Chapter 1

_To Robin Williams, _

_Whose wonderful acting and voice talents inspired my thought processes for this plotline. Even in death you inspire people and create goodness in the world. You're free now, sir. And yet you live on in the memories and remembered childhoods of so many people. Thank you._

**You Ain't Never Had A Friend Like Me**

In all honesty, it should have made sense. Well, it should have made sense to John, anyway. Most people wouldn't understand why it was so normal for John Hamish Watson to be sat in his flat, staring at one of those old style lamps from the stories and myths that people tell you about. You know, the sort that contain genies, the Jinn, or whatever variation of the myth suits your fancy. John had gone through stages of belief in myths and legends. When he was a boy? There was nothing you could stop him from believing in; Father Christmas, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy? You name it, he'd think it was real. Then onto his older childhood years and into teenhood, the doubts settled in and the inevitable revealing of parents' lies crashed down on his shoulders and his spirit with a heavy thud. And he took this dull weight with him all the way to Afghanistan, fighting a battle that was seemingly never ending. He'd seen things out there, though, things that anyone of the faint at heart would easily try to avoid for the vast majority of their lives. And this wasn't all of the death and violence, it was something not of this world, something spiritual and dark. John would probably have been scared out of his wits too if there wasn't a bloody great fight that he was trying to survive. Well, his job was obviously to aid any wounded soldiers that came his way, but that didn't mean that he never had to shoot a gun whilst he was out there. No sir, he was no stranger to firing bullets at the enemy for the sake of innocent people who would otherwise lose _their _lives. So there he was, back to believing in all sorts of things that may or may not be real. But these things were no longer the happy figures he liked to believe were real in the days of his boyhood, they were darker and far more sinister. Back in London, his nightmares now consisted of fellow soldiers dying before his very eyes, but there was also one where he would reach out into the darkness only to feel his hand clasped by something not quite normal, something not quite in the world of the living.

As for the lamp in his possession, well, John should have seen that coming. Whilst alive, his grandfather had been something of a humble traveller, and even joined archaeological teams on their forages for hidden treasures. John had seen this particular lamp a fair few times in his life, it'd been one of his favourites out of his grandfather's possessions. It was like a pirate's treasure trove up in his grandfather's loft, full of antiques and items found on the older man's explorations with the archaeologists. The lamp was rather beautiful, even if John could see now in his wiser years of early adulthood that there was a great deal of rust and dirt covering the once-shiny copper metal. As a child, the rust and dirt had been part of the charm of the beautiful ornament, well it still was, if he was honest with himself. The fact that this lamp was one of the most unassuming items that had ever been in his grandfather's possession was what had drawn John to it in the first place. And yet, as the older John sat staring at the lamp on his desk, he couldn't help but wonder back to his memories of the strange, yet wonderful object. No matter how many times he'd asked to hold, or even just touch it, when he was a boy, his grandfather, the original - but not the first - John Watson had always refused. He'd even gone so far as to putting the lamp out of the little boy's reach so there'd never been any chance of him even so much as getting a good look at it. Even that had made John sad. He had just wanted to touch it, to see what the warm-looking metal would feel like under his fingers. After all, how could something so pretty hurt him? His mother had always stopped him from touching or getting near things that could hurt him, but this was just a funny looking lamp! As he'd grown older, the lamp hadn't been as much of an obsession to him, just sort of in the background of his thoughts every so often, when he wasn't bogged down by school, homework, and a steady stream of on and off girlfriends. Oh, and that one boyfriend he never told anyone about. Since his mother, father and sister, Harry, had died in that god-awful car crash when he was a young boy, he'd always lived with the older John Watson, and life had never been boring, even as his grandfather slowly, but steadily, got older and more frail. After John had gone through uni and gained his medical degree, and even his doctorate, that was when he decided he wanted to save people. And so that's how Afghanistan came along. Even though he was scared of losing the young boy, his grandfather had encouraged him and told him his parents would be so proud. And that's what drove John the most.

So it was no surprise that it'd been a long time since this lamp had been in John's thoughts. Saving innocent people from being gunned down and seeing friends and fellow soldiers fall dead at his feet was enough to push the damned thing out of his mind for a long, long while. Perhaps not long enough. Because the arrival of this particular item to his flat had only ever meant one thing, and it was something he'd hoped wouldn't happen until far into the future. He'd known, though, of course he had. His grandfather was back in England getting older and older, and even more sick and frail, with each day that passed that John was out there fighting. He'd barely had time to get his bearings back in London, had only been there a few days, when the lamp had arrived along with a man dressed in a formal, black suit to bring the bad news. He revealed that the lamp was now in his possession, due to his grandfather's will, as was most of the rest of the late John Watson's belongings. John didn't care about any of the material things, didn't care about the money or the house - which had once been his home too. He wanted his grandfather back, wanted to see the warm smile that would always greet him whenever he'd visited the old man. Regret swam about in John's mind that he hadn't been there for the elderly man in his worst time, but selfishly he still couldn't bring himself to wish that he hadn't gone to Afghanistan. A changed man, that's what most people would say. The things he'd seen and done had ensured he would never be the same naive, innocent boy that his parents had known. Even during this time of development for John, his grandfather had always been there for him, had talked him through his troubles and made him smile when it felt like he'd never smile again. That sent another spike of guilt through him as he sat there on his bed, and he pressed the palm of his hand to his eyes and allowed himself a moment.

The moment dragged on until he'd been sat there for almost an hour before he finally looked up at the lamp again, tears in his eyes and streaming down his cheeks. He gave another sigh and then stood, coming over to his desk and taking the lamp by its handle.

"What good are you to me now?" he muttered to the inanimate object, his gaze no longer full of wonder and amazement like it had been so many years before.

All there was when he looked at the dull copper metal now was a dead, cold look, exhaustion etched into the new lines of his face. John was in no way old yet, or even nearing it, but the war had taken a lot out of him and even just by looking in his eyes you could see everything that he'd seen. The lamp no longer brought joy to his heart the way it once had done.

"I don't want you, I want him," John said quietly, his voice breaking in the middle of the sentence as he started to sob quietly to himself.

He set the lamp back down on the table and once again covered his face with one of his hands, his shoulders shaking slightly as the grief took over him. If he didn't have his grandfather, he didn't want any of his possessions, they would never hold anything for him except bittersweet memories that would fade over the years. Most people would treasure that since they had nothing else, but in his moment of grieving, nothing was enough for the ex-army doctor.

In the midst of his tears and pain, John jolted slightly as a whizzing sound echoed throughout the room and he looked up, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion as he glanced about the room. Where had that noise come from? Sniffing slightly, he grabbed a tissue from the box on the table and moved to blow his nose when something glowing gold caught his eye. Pausing, he turned to see his grandfather's lamp and stared at it when it appeared that the object was glowing. It was as if the originally dull metal was now burning hot and glowing like embers in a fire. Rubbing his eyes a few times, John looked at it again and swallowed, his gaze curious, but wary.

"I've fallen asleep, that must be it," he murmured to himself, shaking his head and taking a deep breath, "This isn't happening."

Those things don't exist, if they did his grandfather would have told him, surely. Obviously he'd fallen asleep from the exhaustion of the emotionally challenging day and his dreams were reverting him back to his childhood when he believed in such things. And yet… His memories of the shadows, figures and voices he'd experienced in Afghanistan came to the forefront of his mind. There was no doubt that he'd seen things that were supernatural. Was there any other explanation for what had happened back then? As he sat there pondering those thoughts, he heard the whizzing sound again, though this time he also saw, out of the corner of his eye, the lamp shift its position on the table slightly, as if moving by itself.

"Okay, let me get this all out of my head and I'll prove you're not real," John muttered, reaching out to take the lamp in his hands.

The metal, instead of being hot like the golden glow suggested, was still cool to the touch and for that John was thankful since he'd rather mindlessly reached out to pick the lamp up. As he stood there with it in his hands, finally, after years and years of wanting to do so in his childhood, John didn't feel the same longing. There was something tugging at him, but it wasn't the same childish admiring of shiny, old things. He just couldn't put his finger on what it was.

"What did my grandfather see in you?" John asked the ornament he held in his hands.

After taking a deep, almost nervous breath, he rubbed his hand over the main body of the lamp once, twice, three times, and then over and over slowly as he watched the copper metal gleam brighter and brighter as if reacting to his touch. Eyes widening slightly, John kept on rubbing for longer than he expected, before the lamp all of a sudden just dimmed back to its original dull colour. Disappointed and more than a little confused, John stared at the lamp before he opened the lid and peered into its shallow depths. Nothing but dark metal also suffering the same rust as the outside.

"Stupid thing," John muttered with a frown, chucking it back onto the desk and walking away to grab his coat and his cane to go let off some steam with a walk out.

_Stupid me_, John thought to himself. He was an idiot for thinking anything would even happen with that old antique. It probably hadn't even glowed, it'd obviously caught a gleam of sunshine from outside, something like that.

When John returned back to his temporary flat later that evening, he was exhausted both physically and emotionally. How was it that not a month ago he'd been able to trek miles and miles every day with his fellow army mates across scorching desert lands, but now he couldn't even go for a walk around London without needing a nap? He supposed the shoulder injury and his limp had something to do with it, but he didn't like to make excuses. Something was wrong with him and he needed fixing, that was obvious. Not long after he got in from his walk around the neighbourhood, not that you could really call it that from the state of the area he currently lived in, John could do nothing but change into some pyjamas and crawl into bed. He was about ready to slip off into sleep when his gaze caught the lamp on his desk, that damned, infuriating thing that had always been in the background of his life. He wanted his grandfather, even if it was just to see him one more time and say everything he needed to say and apologise for not being there. Sighing, he turned away from it and laid on his side so he had his back to it, then closed his eyes. It took a while, but eventually John did finally get the sleep he needed. Whilst the man was blissfully unaware as to what was happening, the lamp began to glow again, this time getting so bright as to light up a corner of the room with its golden brilliance. John shifted in his sleep but remained in the land of nod as a stream of silver smoke poured from the spout of the lamp and transformed slowly into the figure of a man. Said man was tall and thin, dressed in traditional harem pants and a waistcoat, with bangles on his ankles, as well as two larger, silver cuffs at his wrists. His hair was dark and curly, whilst his eyes never seemed to appear one colour, always shimmering from blue to green to grey, though grey was the most prominent colour. The mysterious figure walked silently over to John sleeping in his bed and he crossed his arms as he stared down at him, a displeased look on his face.

"Idiot," he muttered, shaking his head, "So stubborn. As soon as you realise what I am you'll turn greedy like the rest of them."

With a sigh as if highly put upon, the tall man clicked his fingers and a chair appeared, setting it beside John's bed and he sat in it, reclining his bare feet up on the edge of the bed as he waited for his new master to wake up.


	2. Chapter 2

**You Ain't Never Had A Friend Like Me**

_Recently back from Afghanistan, John Watson receives a special item from his grandfather's will that has always been in the background of his life. Whilst at any other time he would have welcomed this addition, the loss of his only family member left weighs hard on his heart. Is there something - or someone - inside the ancient, antique lamp that can lift his spirits at all?_

_**A/N:**_ _I'm hoping that some things will make sense at the end of this chapter, if only a little bit. Bear with me, I am slowly revealing layers chapter by chapter. I just hope not too slowly! And, as always, all criticism is welcome._

**Chapter 2**

Morning arrived with the sound of rain lightly pattering on John's window and he stared up at the ceiling once awake, his eyes feeling heavy from where he'd shed a few tears in his sleep. Even though he'd slept all the way throughout the night, that didn't mean his slumber was undisturbed. Dreams of his grandfather had plagued him, dreams where his last remaining family member called out to John in his times of need, wondered where the young man had gone and why he had left him. The faint memory of those images left a dead weight that settled in his chest as he laid there in bed, regret and pain making his heart swell, feeling fit to burst. As he continued to stay in his bed, he lay there unaware that there was another living being in the room, in fact said being was watching him intensely. The tall, slim figure that had seemingly appeared in the room from the lamp on John's desk was still sat in the chair beside the bed, as he had been all night. He didn't have a lot of patience, but if this man was to be his master for the foreseeable future then he knew that he needed to show himself at some point, and so he stayed at the ex-army doctor's bedside, watching over him if you will. At least this was someone new, and he'd had more than enough time to study the human whilst unconscious, but he'd gotten bored and wanted him to wake up so that he could see his reactions whilst conscious. Of course, it'd probably help if he wasn't invisible so then maybe John would see him and they could get this plan set in motion. Well, no time like the present.

Just as he was wondering whether or not to get up today, feeling miserable in his self-pitying state with his shoulder aching and his leg playing up too, John glanced at his bedside as something flashed in the corner of his eye. He jumped at what he saw there and scrambled to the far side of his mattress towards the wall, inwardly cursing at the stabbing pain in his shoulder that protested at the sudden movement.

"What-" he got out through his startled, somewhat panicked state, almost too shocked to form any kind of coherent sentences, "How did you get in here? Who are you?!"

Before he'd come back from Afghanistan, John probably would have been able to think more clearly in such a stressful situation, and act in a quick and efficient manner. Things were different now. His emotions were playing with his mind and he couldn't think with the same logical, rational thought patterns that he had done in order to save the lives of his fellow comrades back then. The mysterious figure at John's bedside watched the ex-army doctor intently, cataloging his movements, his speech patterns, anything he could pick out from his observations of the man. He put his feet down on the floor and sat up, placing his hands on his knees and cocking an eyebrow in consideration of John's panicked questioning.

"I would have thought it was obvious how I got in here. You rubbed the lamp, did you not? You're not a _complete_ idiot. Rub a genie's lamp and you summon the genie inside and you become their master. So here I am," he murmured, not bothering to raise his voice above being only just audible, "Surprise."

Going by the horror-struck look on John's face, it was quite obvious that he hadn't expected anything of the sort when he'd rubbed the lamp last night. He'd only done it to dispel the stupid idea he had in his head that something weird was happening. All that rubbing the lamp had confirmed to him was that he was obviously too emotional to think straight and he was even imagining things. A therapist would probably tell him that he wanted the lamp to work so that he would feel closer to his grandfather, or some other bullshit like that. What did they know? As if regaining the ability to speak in proper sentences, John sat up and took a deep breath. If speaking to this hallucination would make it go away, he was going to try.

"If you're the genie that was supposedly living in that lamp, why didn't you show yourself straight away? Isn't that how it's supposed to happen?"

Not that he believed anything that this _apparition _was saying. He probably would have looked insane talking to thin air if someone happened to walk in now, but hell, what else was he supposed to do? Just carry on with his daily routine whilst this….thing sat there watching him with those unnerving, inhuman eyes?

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't realise that you were the expert on genie laws. Forgive me, oh wise one."

The genie had this unpleasant look on his face, and actually had the nerve to roll his eyes at John. A hallucination that was coming from his _own mind_ had just rolled his eyes at him. That actually made sense, when he thought about it, considering that he wasn't feeling that good about himself at this point. In fact he'd go so far as to admit that he was an enemy against himself.

"Alright, so you just expect me to believe that you're real and I'm not imagining this, do you? Let alone the fact that you claim to be a genie."

"Well I think that if you were to imagine something, it certainly wouldn't be me. Maybe you'd conjure up your dear grandfather, I sort of you wish you had. He never bothered me, unlike you. Then again he was always much more wise than you."

John's face steadily began to go bright red as he listened to the genie and he clenched his fists, offended by what this _intruder_,for a better word, had said about him. He didn't know anything! Or, rather, if he was an imagining from John's own mind maybe he knew everything and John really didn't like hearing a few home truths.

Seemingly not impressed by John's indignant spluttering and general red-faced denial, the dark haired genie stood from his chair and clicked his fingers, making it disappear from existence altogether.

"I have to say, you are pretty high on the list of masters who have not taken the proof of my existence very well. At least you didn't faint, you can just imagine the horror I had to go through of trying to rouse a previous master from unconsciousness. Honestly, you humans are such fragile things."

John had once again been reduced to speechlessness as he watched the strange being make a chair, that hadn't been there the night before, seemingly disappear into nothing. If only his english teacher had been able to coax this imagination out of him when it came to writing short stories in school, he could have been a literary genius by now. Momentarily distracted by thoughts of his childhood and memories of his then-healthy and, more importantly, _alive _grandfather, John almost missed the distant look that the genie got in his eyes when he looked to the outside world through the window. The tall figure must have noticed John watching him and his head quickly snapped around so he could get a look at him and John could have sworn that he was _scowling_.

"What's that look for?"

The genie sniffed and appeared to give him a pompous look. Crossing his arms, and making his bangles tinkle in the quiet of the threadbare flat, he sighed and leveled John with a firm stare.

"You have questions. Again. Please try to make them at least a little more intelligent this time."

"Well you didn't answer _all_ of my first questions, actually," John pointed out with a huff of annoyance at how insulting he was being.

"My name is whatever you wish to call me, Master," the genie intoned in a dull voice, obviously used to repeating that phrase over and over again.

Something in the way he looked when he said those words didn't sit right with John and the blond man moved to sit on the edge of his bed, hands resting evenly beside him on the mattress as he faced the tall figure.

"Surely you have your own name. You can't have gone your whole life just being referred to as whatever someone else felt like calling you," John replied with a frown, uncomfortable at the thought.

That wasn't a life to live, surely? Then again, how was he to know? He'd only lived this one life and he didn't know any other. The way that this man was referring to himself sounded, disturbingly, like he'd been treated as a slave. Now he really didn't want to believe that this was something he'd imagined up. Despite the things he'd seen during the fighting over in Afghanistan, he didn't really think that he'd turned into some sort of monster because of it. Maybe he was less of a good person than he'd been before he left for the army, but he still had a conscience. And a rather strong one at that.

The genie shrugged and looked away from John, tapping his fingers against his arms as they crossed over each other.

"I once had my own name, but it isn't required of anyone to use it anymore since I'm not my own person. As long as I serve someone else, I don't matter."

"That's bullshit. You know people don't have slaves anymore, right? That's such an old-fashioned thing, and it's wrong."

John's eyes narrowed at the frustrating person in front of him when said person snorted with condescending laughter and rolled his eyes.

"Oh, now I'm being told my own existence is all a lie. What an intelligent master I've been landed with this time. For once I may actually feel inferior in something other than the fact that I am chained to that lamp and bound to serve whoever happens to rub it and disturb me from my peace. For once, someone may just be smarter than me. Who'd have thought that possible?"

John's face kept going red as a tomato, not oblivious to the sarcastic tone that the genie was using with him, and it just further confused him as well as angered him. Could he not just grieve for his grandfather in peace without his mind or, dare he say it, this supernatural being plaguing him?

"Alright, just shut up. Shut up. Do you have to be so god damn _rude_? If you are what you say you are, and I'm still not completely sure if I'm even awake yet, then how on earth have you lasted so long as a genie? Are you rude to all of your masters?"

This time the genie in question turned away and began to pace around the room, and even though John was angry, the sound of bangles tinkling in the drizzly London morning was a pleasant one. One he wouldn't mind sticking around. Wait, what was he thinking? No, he needed to concentrate and get this sorted because he was sick and tired, and _so_ exhausted from the recent events in his life. He'd been through trouble and pain, he didn't need this.

"Forgive me for not being as accommodating as you'd expect, John Watson, but I'm not your typical genie. I've been around for hundreds of years, yes, but that doesn't mean that I don't remember my life before."

"Before what?" John asked quietly after a few moments' silence, his curiosity peaked as to what Sherlock was getting at. What could he mean, his life before?

"My life before becoming a genie," Sherlock muttered, then shook his head and tipped his head back to presumably look at the ceiling, "And I have no idea why I'm telling _you_ this, of all people. I haven't always been a genie. I was human for, what, maybe thirty or so years? And I travelled to China to fuel the flames of my knowledge and quest to know more about the world. You've heard the phrase curiosity killed the cat? Well some would probably use that phrase to describe what happened to me. I happened upon an archive of ancient books and such, and I asked a local translator to translate some of them for me as I hadn't perfected the language yet."

The genie paused a moment, his hands flexing at his sides before he continued.

"Turns out that this man had been waiting for someone like me to turn up for years. Someone intelligent and strong enough that he could test out the powers of one book in particular. A spell book. He locked me in a room and began reading out from some of the pages like he was chanting. I tried talking him out of it, reasoning with him since that's what I usually do to get myself out of particular spots of trouble, but he wouldn't stop. I remember… pain. Incredible pain. Once the first passage had been read, I thought I was safe and I tried to run, but the man produced a lamp to show me, and told me that it was to be my new home. I tried so hard to understand, to get him to explain, it was so painful that I couldn't quite comprehend what was going on. I could only pick out fragmented sentences from the ancient language. I tried to stop him from reading the next passage, but after only a few sentences from the book I was in total darkness."

John didn't dare make a sound as the genie told his tale, instead he watched him intensely, listening to his every word and trying to understand everything himself. He was stunned to see that the genie's unnatural eyes shone with tears as he turned to look at John, even though his face showed his fury.

"He'd given me a genie's powers and then captured me in that...that _thing_," he spat, pointing at the lamp on John's desk, and the ex-army doctor couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt for all the times throughout his life that he'd admired it.

"So, after he'd… done all that? What happened?"

"He rubbed the lamp, of course," the genie said with a sigh, hastily wiping at his eyes and feeling mad at himself for letting all of this get to him, "Wanted to be the first one that I'd serve, since he did _such_ an honour of gifting me with those powers. And serve him I did, though I was miserable. Stuck in that lamp whenever he had no use of me. I had to learn to use the powers myself, and only then could I make the lamp anything like a home. Took me a good while."

"I'm sorry," John offered in a quiet voice, not knowing what else there was to say, what with this hardly being the most typical of situations. He meant it though.

The genie blinked and turned to him then, staring at him as if he'd sprouted two heads and then breathed fire. Actually, he was probably used to that sort of thing if he had the powers of a genie.

"Why are you saying that you're sorry? Do you already have a wish in mind? You don't need to butter me up, I'm bound to grant three wishes for you anyway. There's no point."

"No, look - I _am_ sorry, okay? What you went through, it's terrible. Never seeing your home again, never seeing your family and friends. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. I'm sorry," John said with a sigh, watching the man's face. The genie seemed to have trouble understanding the ex-army doctor's words, staring at his face unblinkingly which sort of unnerved John a bit, but he didn't look away because he wanted this...genie to know he meant his words. He really did feel for him. It took a while, but finally the tall, pale figure took a deep breath and seemed to come back to himself before his lips quirked up at the corners and he held out a hand.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes."


	3. Chapter 3

You Ain't Never Had A Friend Like Me

_Recently back from Afghanistan, John Watson receives a special item from his grandfather's will that has always been in the background of his life. Whilst at any other time he would have welcomed this addition, the loss of his only family member left weighs hard on his heart. Is there something - or someone - inside the ancient, antique lamp that can lift his spirits at all?_

**A/N:** So I've recently received a little more interest in this story and after consideration I have decided to try and continue for as long as I can. I probably have a very bad reputation for not continuing fics, but I just fall in and out of inspiration very often and can go for extremely long amounts of time without wanting to write _anything_. I'll do my best this time around and hope you can bear with me!

Chapter 3

_"The name's Sherlock Holmes."_

So the genie that had been living in the lamp in his grandfather's, and now his, possession was not a typical one, had in fact had a human life of his own before that was all taken from him by no real fault of his own. He'd been out in a new country looking to further his life with knowledge of a different culture to one he was used to, and someone had taken advantage of his curiosity and stripped away his life from him. Those thoughts swirled in John's mind that day as he went about his usual business - well, usual for him now that he'd returned from Afghanistan injured and had a genie living with him at his flat. He'd sat around for a while after meeting Sherlock, drinking multiple cups of tea and trying to avoid the piercing gaze that said genie kept trained on him practically every minute of the day. It became obvious after a while that this was all real, that there had always been a reason why his grandfather had never let him touch the old lamp - because he had known that there was actually a genie living inside and he didn't want John to go and accidentally summon it. Mind still brimming with questions, John decided to head out and buy some milk and other bits for the fridge in order to get out of the flat and leave Sherlock to himself for a little while. It seemed as if talking about his previous life, and even the one he now lived, upset the genie and put him in a foul mood, or rather a worse one than he usually seemed to be in from what he'd experienced so far.

Sighing as he walked into the local supermarket and picked up a basket, John relaxed marginally and glanced around at the other shoppers already going about their business with their own trolleys and baskets. His therapist had told him that he suffered from PTSD, and he tried to push her words away and just get on with his life, not wanting a fuss, but it was a little obvious that perhaps she was right as he began walking around the shop. Usually he was fine in public, but the slightest thing like a sudden movement or loud noise could have him on edge with images of war flashing behind his eyes. It was for this reason that he didn't want to dawdle, he walked around quickly, picking up things that he needed and dropping them into his basket without a second glance back. As he shopped, he took the time to appreciate the time he was having to himself where he didn't have to answer to questions or even ask any about his new "flatmate". It was at this point that he felt like he wasn't alone, that he was being watched. A feeling of dread settled over him as he wondered whether his PTSD was acting up and he took slower steps and inhaled a lungful of air to try and calm himself down. After doing this for a few moments, he glanced about him to make sure no one could see his strange behaviour and then jumped in shock as Sherlock had appeared by his side as if out of nowhere.

"_Jesus_, Sherlock!" he gasped as he pressed a hand to his chest, taking a deep breath and he closed his eyes for a moment to try and get his heart rate down. It was the genie that had been making him feel as if he was being watched all along, he'd been walking alongside John invisible for goodness know how long. He heard Sherlock tut and so he opened his eyes to stare accusingly at him.

"What the hell was that? How long have you been there for? You can't just follow me places, you know. Especially when I can't even see you."

The genie rolled his eyes and gave a long-suffering sigh, "I was bored at your flat. What do you expect me to do all day when you're not there?"

John looked incredulous and he gave a shrug, "I don't know, like you said before, I'm not an expert on genie law. What do you usually do when your… masters leave you on your own?"

Sherlock seemed to look blankly at John as if he wasn't understanding the most simple concept in the world before he realised that he might not actually understand because he didn't think along the same lines as his previous masters. After all, he was the only one to call him by his birth name, was the only person since his transformation into this form to use that name for him. It was so…refreshing. He gave a sniff of annoyance just so that John knew he wasn't thinking such things about him and shook his head, "I've never been left on my own before. It may come as a surprise to you, John, but most people that come to have a genie who can grant them three wishes in their possession don't usually want to let them out of their sight. Every single one of my previous masters have always taken me everywhere. Well, when I say they took /me/ everywhere, they always banished me to the lamp and then just carried the lamp everywhere. Humans can be extremely selfish, John, and none of them cared to see me, they just wanted what I could conjure up for them."

John took a moment to process everything the genie told him before he nodded slowly and cleared his throat, "I see… Well, I suppose if you feel the need to come out with me then do so, but please tell me if you're planning on joining me on my walks outside. I'd rather not suffer a mini heart attack daily because I'm not aware that you're at my side." He took another deep breath and then as he went to ask Sherlock something, his gaze caught the outfit that the genie was dressed in. It was very different from the one that he'd seen him in when they first met that morning. This was modern, with a very expensive look to it. A simple, slim black suit with a button down shirt, as well as a navy scarf and a long, warm looking coat that fell to beneath the genie's knees. He quirked an eyebrow at the change and then finally looked up to meet Sherlock's gaze, and the taller being seemed to be laughing at him, the corners of his mouth tipped upwards in amusement. John huffed and gestured to him with his free hand, "Where did you get those clothes? I've got nothing like that in my wardrobe, which I hope you haven't been going through."

"You really don't get it, do you?" Sherlock asked, seeming to smirk at John as he crossed his arms, "I'm a _genie_, John. I have powers that humans don't have. Even when my master doesn't require a wish from me, I can use those powers for anything I like, so long as I don't harm a human fatally. So, because I felt like taking a trip out into 21st century London, I thought that I should probably make my appearance fit in somewhat just in case I decided to make myself visible. I don't like to get myself muddled in the affairs of idiotic humans that don't understand the realms beyond their own world, so I do have to fit in every so often."

Frowning at the way Sherlock constantly talked to him as if he was an idiot, John began walking ahead to the self service checkouts and he started to put his few items through by himself, knowing that Sherlock followed alongside him. "Alright, Mr I'm-Above-Everyone-Else, so you have powers that you feel you _have_ to use to get by in the ridiculous world of humans so you don't get involved in any complications. I know that you're still bitter that you've ended up like this and had your life taken away from you, but why do you have to act so angry to every other single human on this planet? It's not /my/ fault that all of this happened to you. And I never asked for you to come into my life. That was down to my grandfather, not me."

Sherlock's gaze grew stormy as John went on speaking and his eyes began to change colours from grey to dark blue, and it was almost as if a dark cloud was brewing over his head. "You don't want me here? Fine. I'll go." And with that, the genie disappeared and John was seemingly left on his own. He let out a soft groan of frustration and cursed under his breath before he carried on putting his shopping through, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that someone had just disappeared beside him. The last thing he wanted right now were questions from strangers that he didn't even know - he was getting enough of that at his flat, and now out in public, already. As if wanting to add to his annoyance that day, the self service checkout refused to accept that he'd placed something in the carrier bag and so he ended up arguing with it, trying multiple times to take the item out and then put it back in, to no avail. Eventually a member of staff came over to resolve the situation and John thanked them gruffly before paying with his card. Or at least he tried to. His card was declined twice, and then when it was declined a third time he watched the screen of the self service checkout in dismay, unable to believe he'd gone through all of that only for this to happen. As if a miracle had decided to help him get through the day, the screen jumped and turned static for a moment, then flashed a few different colours before it announced that his card had actually been accepted and a receipt printed. Standing there in shock, John looked around and saw that no one was paying attention to him anymore. So he took his receipt, put it in the carrier bag, and then took that off with him on his way out of the supermarket. Strange… the machine had definitely said that his card had been declined for a third time. Why had it suddenly seemed to change its mind? And the checkout itself looked as if it had glitched whilst he was stood there watching it. With the whole situation still fresh in his mind, John made his way back to the flat, wanting to just sit down and rest his shoulder whilst indulging in a couple of biscuits with a fresh cup of tea.

When the ex-army doctor arrived back at the flat, he went to swing the front door shut only for it to bounce back as if it had hit someone and it drifted open again. John turned to stare at it in confusion for a moment only for realisation to dawn on him. His face dropped and he let out a sigh, "Sherlock, why even bother? Just let me see you, okay? There's no point trying to spy on me, I don't do anything interesting." With his own sigh of annoyance, the genie appeared visible again, shutting the door behind himself and he went to flop down on John's bed, staring up at the ceiling. "I told you that I get bored here by myself, I wasn't just going to disappear back to the flat. So I stayed with you and made you feel like I was gone."

Putting away the bits of shopping that he'd bought, John flicked the kettle on and then grabbed a mug afterwards. He glanced back at Sherlock and looked uncertain for a moment before speaking quietly, "I'm sorry for what I said. It must be hard trying to trust people when you've had all of this happen to you. I obviously can't understand completely, but I know what it feels like to not trust most people. I don't blame you for even hating us now. You said that people are selfish, and you're right. I see it all the time, I suppose I just choose to ignore it. But I can't anymore, not now that I've been forced back into normal life and can't hide away in Afghanistan. The real world is out there and I have to be part of it." He began pouring hot water into his mug, got a thought, then turned back to the genie again, "By the way, do you want a cuppa? I didn't know if you could eat or drink."

Sherlock tried his best to keep a straight face, but he just couldn't when John had spoken so seriously for all that time and then just came straight out and asked if he wanted some tea. He broke out into giggles, his face scrunched up as he genuinely laughed for what might have been the first time since being a genie. John found the laughter contagious and he grinned, letting out a few soft chuckles when he realised what it was that Sherlock was laughing at. When the genie finally calmed down, he wiped his eyes and let out a soft sigh, not wanting John to think he was enjoying this too much but he kept a small smile on his face. "A cup of tea would be lovely, thanks. I /can/ eat and drink, but it's not a necessity anymore. Doesn't mean that I don't miss it." He turned his head to look back at the ceiling and hummed in thought, "I accept your apology. At least you have the decency to apologise, none of my other masters have ever cared about how their words affect me. I appreciate that you realise what you said was hurtful and you took it back. I'll remember that."

Smiling to himself as he brought over their cups of tea and he sat beside Sherlock on the bed, John set the genie's cup on his desk beside the bed so it could cool down before he attempted to drink it. He blew on his own cup and looked at the figure laying beside him, "So you were with me the whole time at the supermarket then? Even when I thought you had gone… I must have looked a right idiot arguing with that self service checkout. I just can't get my head around them, they're supposed to help you, not put obstacles in front of you." He shook his head to himself with a soft chuckle, leaving out the part where his card had almost been declined three times. He didn't want to worry about the implications of that just yet, not when everything was already so complicated in his life. He would have his tea and biscuits with Sherlock, he would try and talk to him some more about his life, and then he would go to bed, only to start another difficult day in the morning.

"It was rather amusing to watch you struggle with it," Sherlock admitted with a smirk as he sat up, reaching for his cup of tea and he took a sip right away, the heat didn't appear to affect him. John got up again and went to grab the packet of biscuits he'd bought at the supermarket, chuckling at Sherlock's remark, only for his face to fall in humiliation at the next one the genie made, "Though next time you want to pay for something and don't want your card to get declined, just make a wish for more money - I could get in trouble for using my powers on you when a wish hasn't been made. Once is usually overlooked, but if I make a habit of it, someone will take notice and the consequences for both of us could be severe. I don't want to find out what might happen."


	4. Chapter 4

You Ain't Never Had A Friend Like Me

_Recently back from Afghanistan, John Watson receives a special item from his grandfather's will that has always been in the background of his life. Whilst at any other time he would have welcomed this addition, the loss of his only family member left weighs hard on his heart. Is there something - or someone - inside the ancient, antique lamp that can lift his spirits at all?_

Chapter 4

"I'm sorry, Mr Watson, but - "

"It's Dr Watson."

"Right. Apologies, Dr Watson. I'm very sorry, but it looks as if that's all that is due into your account this month. If you'd like us to increase your overdraft, we have a few different options for you to look at."

Sighing, John pinched the bridge of his nose between this thumb and forefinger, sitting back in the uncomfortable seat he'd been offered at the bank. He shook his head and suddenly, yet slowly, stood up, "I wouldn't like to increase my overdraft. That's all I needed to know, thanks for your time."

The ex-army doctor didn't give the bank worker time to reply before he was limping off with his cane in tow, silently fuming at how he was expected to survive a whole month with next to nothing left of his army pension. Not that there was much of it at the start of the month to begin with. As he made his way down the street, a police car pulled up to the side of the road and two police officers got out, practically sprinting down a side alley as they shouted into the radios strapped to their protective vests. John perked up a little at the presence of something interesting going on and he peeked down the alleyway just as the two officers disappeared around a corner. About to shrug it off, despite his natural curiosity for anything considered dangerous, John turned to carry on down the road when he felt himself tugged backwards by some invisible force. As he was still not quite used to the life that came with having a genie at your service, it took him some time to realise that it was an invisible Sherlock that wanted him to pay more attention to the crime scene that was forming down the alleyway.

When he did finally remember that he was never really alone anymore, John rolled his eyes and stopped moving, leaning against his cane for a moment. "What is it now, Sherlock?"

"Don't be an idiot, John, I saw that look in your eyes. Go and have a look around that crime scene, we could lend a helping hand." The genie appeared out of thin air wearing his '21st century outfit' again, his hands in his pockets and a peculiar gleam to his gaze.

John had an incredulous look on his face and he leaned forward, holding a hand out in a vaguely confused gesture, "Go and have a look around that crime scene? Lend a helping hand? Do I look like I'm wearing a sergeant's outfit, Sherlock? And what would you know about crime scenes anyway?"

As soon as those words left the blond man's lips, he knew that he shouldn't have even dared to think them. Sherlock straightened up to try and maximise his height, his chest puffing out as he opened his mouth to explain just _why_ he was the only man in London, maybe even the only man in the world, who had the right to inspect that crime scene. "Well, perhaps I'll tell you what I know about _crime scenes_, John Watson. I know for a fact that there is no real, _physical_ pain in your leg. Your war wound was to your shoulder, and your limp is due to psychological reasons rather than any proper injury. But of course you _know_ that deep down, you've come to realise that despite needing a cane to walk, just during this whole conversation you've not needed it to help you stand whatsoever. In the few days that I've been with you, you've not once complained of needing a seat whenever we've ventured outside of your flat. The only reason that you ever need rest is purely for your shoulder and nothing else. You haven't had any nightmares since I've been here, but I know that you're terrified of having another one because, towards the end of each night, you go about a small routine that you don't realise you've taken up. You'll check that your windows are locked, you'll close the curtains, switch off the lights, have a quick peek onto the streets outside, then mutter to yourself about anything you need to remember to do for the next day. Once all of that's done, since I've been here you've even taken to asking me if there's anything I need before you go to sleep. If I say no, you'll ask if I'm sure at least twice before you finally go to get changed into your pyjamas and resign yourself to the fact that you're going to have to try and sleep again. All the while you're just hoping and praying that those horrific images don't plague your much-needed night's sleep. Oh, and another thing - any normal person would take days to come to terms with the fact that they've acquired a genie in their life. You didn't even need a day and you'd already left me to stay in your flat by myself and hadn't put up much of a fight when I decided to come with you on your little trip to the shops. You like the excitement, John. When you were out in Afghanistan, you _liked_ it. You liked that you didn't know whether you were going to be safe every day, didn't know for certain what was going to be around the corner. And the appearance of me in your life is fairly similar - I present a new aspect of life that you'd never considered before. A genie is interesting, something new. I'm _exciting._ And that, for your information, is just a little of what I know about crime scenes."

Sherlock watched John for any signs of a reaction and let a satisfied smirk pull at his lips when he saw the stunned, almost disbelieving look that the ex-army doctor had on his face. He revelled in those sorts of reactions to his genius - not that he'd had much chance to show it off lately. He'd been stuck in the elder John Watson's loft for goodness knows how long and the man never once dared to touch his lamp with his bare hands so he'd never revealed himself, let alone had a conversation with the man. "So what do you say to taking a look?" the genie asked, not doing anything to try and hide his pleased smile.

Finally coming back to his senses after pretty much having his current life laid out on an examination table and prodded at with a scalpel, John swallowed hard and he stuck out his chin as he looked Sherlock dead in the eyes. "I say… that was bloody _brilliant_," he exclaimed, shaking his head. He let out a puff of air, almost unable to believe what he'd heard, and then began grinning at the genie, "I don't know where you learnt to do that, but really… I can't believe you knew all of that just from looking at me. Come on, we can go look at the crime scene for five minutes but I won't have you getting me in trouble, alright?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes as he crossed the road and began jogging off in the same direction that the two police officers had run towards.

Huffing in slight annoyance, John did his best to follow as quick as he could, but with his damned limp, which Sherlock had apparently just deduced to be psychosomatic, things were made a little more difficult. He did the best he could, making sure to keep his gaze on Sherlock as he disappeared around a corner. "I saw you rolling your eyes, don't make me change my mind, Sherlock!"

"Quiet!" Sherlock hissed as he poked his head back around the corner, frowning at John before he once again began running off after the police. John shook his head but remained quiet from then on, not wanting to bring attention to himself since they could easily be thought of as suspects if they were found wandering around the crime scene. When John slowly managed to catch up with the genie, he crept up behind him from where he was pressed up against a wall, watching the scene from around the corner. His eyes seemed to take in every detail, scanning and analysing, as if he was a robot that had been trained to help the police solve a murder just from the most simple of clues.

Thinking it best not to mention that thought to Sherlock himself, he leaned in close to whisper to him, "So? What do you see? Please tell me that you see _something_."

Tutting at the shorter man, he flapped a hand at John's face to try and stop him from whispering in his ear. He also didn't like someone else being in his personal space so much, it made him feel… uncomfortable, for lack of a better word. "They're not seeing all of the evidence," Sherlock whispered, shaking his head with a frustrated sigh, "It's right in front of their eyes. What are these idiots even working for the police for? To stand around looking like lemons? Honestly…"

Standing up properly now, Sherlock flipped the collar of his coat up and began walking right up to the crime scene, looking as if this was where he belonged, where he fit in. "Can I just ask what's going on here?" he asked a grey-haired man in a long coat who appeared to have authority in the situation. It was obvious what had happened since there was a dead body laid face down in the dirt in this back alley, but he had an act to play out before he could make his point.

Said man turned to the genie and raised an eyebrow at his boldness, "Well, sir, as you can see this is a crime scene so if you could keep back away from the police tape that'd be very helpful."

Sherlock simply smiled a tight-lipped smile and he nodded once, "That much is obvious. I've just been worried about all of this since we have quite a good community here and it wouldn't do to get poor Mrs Warren upset. She's all alone in her house, you see, and we all do our bit to make sure she isn't too lonely. And if she caught wind of this happening practically on her doorstep, she'd never want to be alone again."

Heaving a sigh, the other man came a bit closer and spoke in a low tone of voice, "Not that I should be telling you this, but there's been a murder. So I think you should probably keep your Mrs Warren away from the news as much as you can for a little while. Now, I really need to get back to work, sir."

Sherlock began quietly laughing as the man turned away, and it was this noise that made him turn back to look at the genie. He gave him a questioning stare but didn't get the chance to say anything before Sherlock had cut in. "How do you expect to do your job when you're missing all of the obvious evidence? Don't you see the soil embedded in the man's shoes? Check the soil under a microscope and you'll find where he's been in the past few days. What about the dirt beneath his fingernails and bacteria particles that you might find in his hair? All of this can lead you to the killer, or at least give you a little hint. Give it a try, you might find something interesting, hmm?"

The genie turned to walk away, only to be called back by the other man, "Hey, who are you?"

Sherlock smiled to himself and he carried on walking, but called over his shoulder, "Just a concerned citizen, that's all. Good luck, inspector."

John looked horrified as Sherlock made his way back over to him and he grabbed the genie's elbow, leading him out of the alley the way they'd come, not looking back once as they walked. When they were back on the street, he threw his arms up in the air and sighed, "What the hell was that all about? You're not supposed to draw attention to yourself as it is, but now because of your smart arse comments we're probably going to be under the police's radar as suspects for a murder thanks to you! What were you thinking, Sherlock?"

Looking bored by John's anger, Sherlock shrugged and began walking off in the direction that would lead them to the ex-army doctor's flat. "I was just helping out, that's all." As John reluctantly began to follow along behind him, a little faster than normal, he frowned at the ridiculous statement. But Sherlock felt the need to justify his actions for some reason, even if it was just to put the other man's mind at ease. He spoke up once again, glancing back at John with a smirk, "Think of it as a little help with your bills. Perhaps if we can get you up and walking about more like you are right now, you'll have a full time, well-paying job rather soon. No more of your card being declined. How does that sound?"

John actually stopped to think about the fact that his cane wasn't even touching the ground as he walked now, and indeed he had gained a little speed. Since he was shorter he wasn't as fast as Sherlock, but there was definitely a change there. Had Sherlock used his magic somehow? Or had the events of the day shocked him into getting better? Either way, he couldn't bring himself to be angry at the prospect of having proper money in his bank account for the first time since before Afghanistan. At the back of his mind, however, John got to thinking… why was Sherlock doing all of this for him?


	5. Chapter 5

You Ain't Never Had A Friend Like Me

_Recently back from Afghanistan, John Watson receives a special item from his grandfather's will that has always been in the background of his life. Whilst at any other time he would have welcomed this addition, the loss of his only family member left weighs hard on his heart. Is there something - or someone - inside the ancient, antique lamp that can lift his spirits at all?_

Chapter 5

After the thrill of staking out a crime scene with Sherlock that morning, the rest of the day was one of the most surreal moments in John's life, and that was even taking into consideration that he'd just met a genie the morning before and was told he was to be the genie's new "master". When they'd arrived back at John's flat, Sherlock had immediately rushed to the desk where John kept his laptop in a drawer. He'd pulled out the device and sat on his bed, then seemed to lose himself in whatever he'd been so desperate to look at. John only managed to get a word out of him when he procured a cup of tea for the genie and set it on the desk beside him.

"Tea," the ex-army doctor announced, then sat in the chair at the desk with his own cup in his hands, "What is it that's gotten you so interested in my laptop? It's not anything to do with that crime scene earlier, is it? You shouldn't be drawing anymore attention to us, they've probably got people watching the flat now as it is."

Sherlock didn't react right away, but it was as if the scent of tea in the room perked up his senses and he turned his head to look at John. He blinked a few times as if replaying back John's words to himself before he took his cup of tea and sipped on it. "They won't bother keeping an eye on us, we've got no links to the crime scene at all. We were a couple of civilians that were concerned for our community, that's it. I am, however, looking into it more. The detective inspector took my advice and they've made considerable progress into finding the murderer. I'm interested to see how far they get with this."

John didn't like how much Sherlock was paying attention to this murder, he had a feeling that the genie was going to try and intervene again - there was only so much snooping a civilian could do before the police would come knocking at their door to arrest them for wasting their time. "Please don't go looking for that inspector again," he muttered over the top of his mug of tea, "I've got enough going on without needing my genie going off and getting into trouble. What would happen if you got arrested? You can't arouse too much attention otherwise people will start asking questions."

Sherlock paused in his typing as he heard John refer to him as _his_ genie. It sent a weird feeling rocketing through him and he wasn't sure whether it was good or bad. All of his previous masters had always described him that way, and it was definitely a negative feeling in regards to them. He lifted his head and stared at John, scrutinising him, his whole being. As if coming back to himself, he then shook his head and went back to the laptop. He refused to answer anymore of John's questions and didn't even look up from the laptop again that evening.

After trying to bring the genie out of this momentary obsession with his laptop for hours, John had had enough. He'd brought cup after cup of tea to him, which Sherlock had silently drank whilst continuing to browse the internet and type up documents of notes, it seemed. He'd even made dinner with the few things he had in his fridge and cupboards - Sherlock accepted it with just a nod of thanks as he kept his gaze on the laptop screen, then had slowly and almost methodically ate his way through the plate. When he'd finished, he slid the plate onto John's desk and went back to the laptop once again. It became obvious that Sherlock wasn't going to talk to him that evening, so the ex-army doctor pulled on his coat with a sigh and decided to go for a walk around the neighbourhood. It wasn't the best of places to take a walk on your own in the dark, but he would be fine - he'd seen enough in his life to know how to deal with pretty much anything that might happen to him. As he went to the front door he looked back at Sherlock, shaking his head, "I'll be back in an hour or so, don't go anywhere on your own." Knowing the genie wouldn't reply, he then stepped outside and headed downstairs to let himself out of the building. When the cold air of the night hit him, he shivered and let out a puff of air - perhaps he'd make this walk a brisk one. Setting out on the pavement, John didn't even seem to realise that he'd not thought to bring his cane with him. Sherlock's words were true to some extent; the situation with the crime scene _and_ having a genie in his life were exciting to John, and that's what was helping to keep John's psychosomatic limp away.

For the first time in the past few days, John didn't feel like he was being followed which meant that Sherlock hadn't heard him back at the flat and hadn't decided to join him on his travels. He should have felt relieved at that, but in fact he was beginning to feel a little…disappointed? That came as a surprise to John. Since the genie had appeared in his life, his presence had always been something of a nuisance - following him without John knowing, dragging him to a crime scene to try and investigate it, appearing visible at random times which almost gave John a heart attack when it happened - they were all things that he probably didn't need in his life. And yet, the thought that Sherlock had stayed back at the flat and wasn't by his side dampened his mood a little bit. The genie did make him smile, despite his eccentric behaviour, and he appeared to be doing things in John's favour. The business with his card getting declined and claiming that the crime scene investigation would help John get better, they were just the few things that Sherlock had done apparently just to help John out. The ex-army doctor couldn't help but wonder why he was doing it. He knew that he was expected to make three wishes which Sherlock, he assumed, would grant him and then would move on to become someone else's genie. But he'd made no such wishes yet and Sherlock said that he'd even used his magic to stop his card getting declined which he wasn't supposed to do unless it was for a wish. So he'd even risked himself just to help John out, even if it was just for a trivial thing. What did it all mean?

Drifting away from his thoughts for a moment, John looked around and he saw that he was on the edge of his neighbourhood and was nearing the centre of the city. He went to turn back, only to glance about when he heard a phone ringing close by. His gaze zoned in on a telephone box just a little way down the street and he felt himself rooted to the spot in confusion. People didn't ring telephone boxes, did they? It just didn't happen. Was it even possible? Unable to fight his damned curiosity, John found himself walking towards the phone box and he stepped inside, picking up the phone and he pressed it to his ear. He didn't say anything, he just listened to try and see whether someone was actually on the other end of the line. "Look to the building directly to your left," a well-spoken voice commanded through the phone, and John found himself glancing towards said building, "Do you see the CCTV camera? Watch." The CCTV camera on the nearest wall of the building turned away to look down the other street. "And now look to the building across the street. Watch the CCTV camera, Dr Watson." John felt a chill shiver down his spine at the mention of his name and he felt like dropping the phone then and there, but risked a glance across the street to watch the CCTV camera swivel and drop as if watching the floor.

"Who is this?" John asked roughly, his voice going scratchy as fear ricocheted through his body. He felt tense and ready to run, put on edge by the other voice on the end of the line. "How the hell do you know my name?" He seemed to wait an eternity before there came a reply from the well-spoken man.

"Get in the car, Dr Watson," he commanded, then hung up the phone as the line went dead. Swallowing hard and feeling that his mouth had gone as dry as cardboard, John hung up the phone onto the cradle and took a glance out onto the road to see that a sleek, black car had pulled up beside the phone box. What the hell was going on? He stepped out of the phone box and eyed the car suspiciously. All of the windows were tinted so there was no way he could make out the driver. Just when he was considering going to knock on the window to see whether the driver would show his face, one of the passenger doors opened and a dark haired woman dressed smart in a suit jacket and skirt stepped out, a phone in her hand which she typed at in record speed. She glanced at him for a moment before nodding towards the car, "In you get, Dr Watson. He doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"Who doesn't?" John asked almost desperately, just wanting to know who the hell had just called a phone box to display some kind of power trip and knew his name. The woman that had just stepped out of the car laughed, not raising her gaze from her phone, then had smiled to herself before getting back in the car.

"Please get in," she said, still not looking at John before she shut the car door. John stared incredulously at her car window, unable to quite believe what was happening. Who were these people and why did they just expect him to go along with this? They were treating him as if he was stupid for not just doing what they said. This was madness. And so was what he was about to do next.

Walking over to the car, he went around to the other side and he opened the door, sliding into the seat next to the woman he'd just spoken with. When he closed his door and buckled himself in, the car immediately began driving off and he looked around before finally settling his gaze on the woman beside him. "Who are you?" he asked, his hand clutching at his door handle as his heart hammered away in his chest.

She took a while to reply, but finally she looked over at John with what seemed to be an amused smile. Her gaze went back to her phone and she spoke softly, "You can call me Anthea," she decided, as if she was unsure of what her actual name was. Or was she just using a fake name so this couldn't come back to her if something bad happened to John?

All of these thoughts circled in the ex-army doctor's mind as they were driven to an unknown location. He didn't recognise anything as he watched the scenery go by outside, and his heart rate just picked up even more at the thought that he'd willingly gotten into a car with people he didn't know just because a seemingly-powerful man on the end of the line in a phone box had told him to. And Sherlock wasn't with him so he couldn't even get help from the genie if he got into trouble. This was his own damn fault, his curiosity always got the better of him and he ended up in all sorts of situations because of it.

Finally they stopped and John felt the colour drain from his face when he looked outside and saw that they'd turned up outside an abandoned factory of some kind. This must have been on the very outskirts of London, if it was in London at all. "Out you get," the woman who called herself Anthea directed, still not bothering to look up from her phone. John gave a shaky sigh and he shot her one last incredulous look before he opened his door and slowly stepped outside. As soon as he was out of the car, it began to slowly drive off, leaving him stranded at this factory. _Here it goes, John, you've done it this time_, he thought to himself as he began to walk towards what seemed to be the entrance to the abandoned building. He reached a door and pushed it open, hearing nothing inside the place except for the echo of the creaking door. Stepping inside, John followed a hallway that went straight forwards and came to a set of double doors this time. These doors were ajar, and that sent his heart rate sky-rocketing - surely this meant that someone would be inside. Was it going to be the man who had been the voice that was on the other end of the telephone?

"There you are, I thought you weren't going to come," a voice called to John as he pushed through the double doors and came into what appeared to be the main room of the factory. It was a large, mostly-empty space, save for a few abandoned parts of machinery that had obviously been too much bother to get rid of when they'd had to close the factory. The room wasn't lit by electricity, only by natural sunlight that filtered in through the large windows high up around the room. John had to peer into the semi-darkness to try and see who had spoken to him. He walked further in and was finally able to see a man wearing an expensive looking suit, holding an equally expensive looking umbrella. Oddly enough, he was stood there smiling at him. It was a strange smile though, it didn't reach his eyes and it almost appeared calculating. "Come now, don't be shy, Dr Watson. After all, I know everything about you. There's no need to look so worried. Would you care to join me for some tea?" He gestured to a table behind him where there were two chairs and a tray carrying a tea pot as well as two tea cups. John couldn't have made all of this up even if he _was_ dreaming.

"Who the hell are you, and what do you want?" the ex-army doctor demanded, not caring for this little show that apparently his kidnapper had put on for him. He didn't know why, but it just gave him the creeps and he wanted to get out. It was obvious that the man before him wasn't holding any weapons, but there was no telling who else was in this building with him and just what they would do with a word from their employer. His fists were clenched at his sides and his body was tensed like a coil ready to spring up at any moment.

The suited man in front of him gave a soft sigh, looking as if he was disappointed, and he began walking towards John, swinging his umbrella beside him as if he was going on a leisurely stroll around a park. "You're scared, but you like the excitement," the stranger commented, his eyes piercing and reminding him of someone, but he couldn't place his finger on it. "May I look at your hand?" he asked, but when John didn't reply, too wary to do anything, he tutted and took hold of John's left hand, bringing it up to eye level to get a good look at. He smiled as if satisfied with what he saw, then met John's inquiring gaze. "You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. But what your therapist doesn't realise is that you're not scared of the war. You miss it. You miss the excitement. That's why your hand isn't shaking right now. You love being in situations where you can't tell what's going to happen next. When you're at your flat, staring at those four walls, _that's_ when your hand will start shaking And you know why. It's because the war gave you purpose, gave you the adrenaline that you so crave."

This was too much for John - he snatched his hand out of the man's grasp and looked steadily at him, lowering his voice as he asked him once again, "Who are you? What do you want with me?" This was so different from when Sherlock had laid his life out and picked it apart. Sherlock had done it to prove a point to John in order to convince him to go look at a crime scene, not to try and intimidate him like this man so obviously was trying to do. It was working, but John wouldn't back down so easily.

"I want you to make your three wishes of Sherlock, then bring the lamp to me," the man suddenly announced, lifting his chin to stare levelly at the ex-army doctor, his eyes narrowed slightly. "It's high time that he came back to where he belongs. He's been passed from greedy man to greedy man for many years, he should be with someone that has his best interests at heart."

This was definitely unexpected. How the hell did this man know about Sherlock and what he was, what he could do? Perhaps he was from the secret services and they'd been watching the lamp's whereabouts ever since his grandfather had had it in his possession. And what did he mean, he needed to be back where he belonged? Sherlock belonged back in a time that had long passed, and his family were dead now. As sad as it was for John to think of, Sherlock didn't have anyone left and he didn't really belong anywhere anymore. The person that had bound him to that lamp had made sure of that. "I have no idea what you're talking about, who's Sherlock?" he asked, frowning and trying his best to appear clueless.

"You can't lie to me, Dr Watson," the taller man said sharply, "You know what I'm talking about. Do what is best for Sherlock and let him go. When you've made your three wishes, I will come to collect the lamp from you. And don't worry, I won't bring any harm to him if that's what you're worried about."

Stepping backwards, John shook his head and he glared at the strange man, "I will do no such thing. I'm not giving Sherlock away to some strange person that easily. He's not some prize to just be handed from person to person, he has feelings. Have you ever considered that he doesn't want to be tossed around, only living to serve people? I'll not be making any wishes anytime soon, so good luck with that." And then, John was marching back out of the factory. He didn't hear the man call to him anymore, so it was obvious that John had made his point. He half expected to be shot down as he tried to leave the factory, but nothing happened. The chilling night time air hit him as he got outside and he took a deep breath before glancing around. He was in the middle of nowhere with no way to get back to his flat. Bloody brilliant. Pulling his mobile phone from his pocket, he cursed when he saw that he had no signal .Typical. Just when he needed a cab the most, he had no way of getting one. Well, he supposed that he'd just have to try and find his way back to a neighbourhood somewhere and perhaps get some signal there. As he began walking away from the abandoned factory, John could see headlights from a car passing down the road that ran alongside the factory. He looked around in disbelief, and then was about to hail the car closer when it turned in and drove slowly towards John. "What on earth…?" the ex-army doctor muttered to himself as he realised that it was in fact a taxi that was heading his way.

"Think of it as a thank you," a voice said softly beside him, and John almost jumped out of his skin to see Sherlock stood beside him.

He stared at the genie and then back at the taxi, "That was… You were here all this time? You called the cab?"

Nodding, Sherlock went to open the door to the taxi when it stopped beside them and he smiled at John, "How you dealt with him back there… I appreciate it. And I'll explain who he is when we get back to the flat, I promise." He slid inside the taxi and sat on the backseat, letting the cabbie know where they wanted to get to. John looked too shocked to speak as he too slid in the taxi beside Sherlock, and for a long while he couldn't stop staring at the genie, at a loss as to what to say. Sherlock had used his powers for him again… He had to stop this before he got in real trouble. John didn't know what the consequences would be, but he knew that if it involved Sherlock being taken away from him, he would try all he could to keep him by his side.


End file.
